The Accidental Daddy. Meredith Webber

about the mistake. Even from the small interactions with her patients that he’d witnessed, he could tell she was competent and caring.

      That was really all he needed to know. The baby was nothing to do with him.

      So why were his eyes drawn to her belly whenever she entered the room?

      Why did he feel the gut-wrench thing—the ‘that’s my baby in there’ reaction—whenever he looked at her?

      Because she was attractive?

      Because he was drawn to her in some in explicable way?

      Because he was having an almost primeval reaction to the news that this was his baby?

      All those reasons were dumb. He could go now, forget this had ever happened, and if Pete told her—when Pete told her—about the mix-up, he needn’t mention who the father was.

      As for the woman—well, she was attractive, there was no denying that, but she wouldn’t want him interfering. A woman with a child deserved stability and certainty in her life. She was a widow. She was beautiful, desirable, ripe to meet someone who could make her happy again. And if he was on the scene …

      He was way ahead of himself. Thinking, stupidly, of relationships? He didn’t need to go there. A man who’d already let down two women he’d loved, and who’d loved him, couldn’t be trusted not to hurt a third. And to hurt a woman with a child was unthinkable.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE WAITING ROOM was suddenly empty.

      He still had time to leave, but when the door opened, and the tired, very pregnant but still beautiful woman walked out, he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare at her.

      ‘Joanne McMillan,’ she said, holding out her hand,

      Suddenly aware of his own manners—bad ones that he’d stayed sitting—he surged to his feet and stepped towards her, tripping on a toy he hadn’t noticed on the floor, and all but crash-tackling the woman to the floor.

      Great start!

      She was far more with it than him—stepping to one side but putting out a hand to steady him as he regained his balance.

      ‘Sorry! Max Winthrop,’ he muttered, grasping her free hand—the other still holding his arm.

      And for the second time in the morning he was dumbstruck.

      Her eyes were blue—not pale and wishy-washy blue but a clear, almost violet blue.

      Mesmerising.

      ‘You made an appointment?’

      She’d dropped her hand from his arm, and it was probably just politeness that she hadn’t let go of the one he was clasping.

      He had the weirdest sensation that something was passing between them, bearing a warmth he didn’t understand.

      Of course, there was a good chance he’d completely lost his marbles. Shock could do that.

      ‘Meryl tells me you’re from the clinic. Is it just a polite visit to check if I’m okay?’

      He looked into the blue eyes, drowned in the blueness, stepped back a little but somehow kept hold of her hand.

      He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t destroy this woman’s happiness because that’s what still shone through the tiredness—happiness and a little excitement.

      Was she really standing in her waiting room, holding the hand of a complete stranger?

      Studying the complete stranger as if it was important to take in every detail of his features?

      Now he was closer and she could see the fine lines fanning out from his eyes, the smile grooves bracketing his lips.

      She probably should keep her eyes off the lips, and reclaim her hand …

      She managed both, though how she wasn’t sure for the man seemed to have cast some kind of spell over her, so they’d stood in a time-proof bubble for who knew how long.

      ‘You’re from the clinic? Is this just a courtesy call?’

      Somehow she’d managed the repeat the question she’d asked earlier, pretending to a normality she was far from feeling. But she’d no sooner spoken than the man turned pale, pain of some kind straining the features she’d found so mesmeric.

      ‘Yes! No!’

      He’d stepped back a little, which was just as well because his close proximity had certainly added to the strange mix of sensations she’d been experiencing.

      Although his confusion was now transmitting itself to her in definite twinges of anxiety.

      ‘Yes, or no, which is it?’ she asked, producing a smile to cover the anxiety.

      ‘Oh, hell, I’ve no idea. I should walk right out the door, right now—out the door and out of your life.’

      Out of my life? ‘But you’re not actually in my life,’ Joey pointed out. ‘In my rooms, yes, but hardly in my life!’

      Max Winthrop—she was almost certain that was the name he’d given—groaned, turning even paler.

      ‘Perhaps you should sit down,’ Joey told him, and placing her hand very carefully on his arm she guided him back to where he’d been sitting earlier.

      Touching him was probably a mistake as all the sensations she’d experienced earlier returned a thousandfold.

      This was insanity. The man was a stranger. Okay, so he was an attractive stranger, but in truth she’d met many better-looking men, knew a dozen of them and had dated quite a few.

      With absolutely no physical reaction whatsoever …

      Not since David!

      She patted her stomach and tried to think.

      The clinic!

      And for the first time since Meryl had mentioned the clinic, the man and the attraction were forgotten, and she felt a surge of panic.

      ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

      She’d been looking down at him, but now he stood up and put his hand on her arm again.

      ‘Perhaps we should both sit down,’ he said, so softly, so gently, the surge turned into a roaring tsunami of fear, invading every cell of her body.

      Both hands now protectively cradling her belly, she stared at the man.

      ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

      Had she lost colour that he almost forced her into the chair? Sat her down then settled beside her, his hand still grasping her arm.

      It was comforting, that hand, but why should she need comforting?

      ‘Talk!’ she ordered, trying to read his face—a strong face, unused, she was sure, to uncertainty or confusion, although both emotions seemed to be in evidence right now.

      He opened his mouth as if to respond then closed it again, but not before it had attracted her attention to the extent that she had to confirm it was a very nice mouth—and little lines she’d noticed earlier were evidence that he smiled a lot.

      But he was not smiling now.

      Was he so uncomfortable sitting beside her that he needed to move to squat, awkwardly, in front of her, the way she did when speaking to a small patient?

      Or did he need to see her face while he said whatever he had to say?

      Fear was creeping into the panic now and her heart was thudding in her chest.

      ‘Please,’ she whispered.

      He took her hands, both hands—and even in her panicky state she